We both lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, catching our breath like two kids who just survived a cotton-filled apocalypse.
The silence was soft. Too soft. So my mouth moved before my brain could stop it.
"You're not going to die, are you?"
She laughed—like actually laughed, loud and unfiltered.
"Of course I'll die, dumbass. Everyone dies. You will too. Might be tomorrow, might be eighty years from now. And guess what?" She turned to face me, eyes wild with that Zain sparkle. "Neither of us has even done what we wanted yet."
Then she sat up like a bolt of lightning just struck her brain.
"Oh. My. God."
I raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"We have to write a To-Die list!"
"You mean to-do list?"
"No. To-die list. A list of things we have to do before we die. Trademarked. Copyrighted. Zain's™ idea."
"Okay but... what if we don't finish it?" I said, pretending not to care even though I kinda did.
She flopped dramatically back on the bed, limbs everywhere like a dead spider.
"Ugh, can you not ruin the moment, Shin? Let me have this. I'm the main character now." She stood up like she was stepping into a spotlight only she could see, one hand in the air, her other hand over her chest like she was accepting an Oscar.
"The camera pans up. Tragic girl with glitter in her soul decides to start living like she's not dying. Boom. Cue soundtrack. Indie music plays in the background. Probably Florence + The Machine."
I snorted. "That's oddly specific."
She gasped. "You're right. Conan Gray instead."
Then she grabbed her pink glitter pen from the desk and pulled out a journal from under a pile of scrunchies and chaos.
"Okay, what's going on this list?" she asked, eyes twinkling like a kid planning a heist.
I hesitated, then sat up too.
"Eat ten types of cake in one day," I said.
"King behavior. Write it down."
She scribbled fast.
"Fly to Japan," she said. "Ride a bullet train and pretend to be rich."
"Pretend?"
"Shut up."
We kept going. Silly things. Big things. Maybe-impossible things.
To-Die List:
Eat ten types of cake
Fly to Japan
Dance in the rain without getting arrested
Sneak into a rich people's party
Kiss someone on a rooftop
Steal a dog just to return it with a thank you note
Go to prom and look unreasonably hot
Ride a shopping cart down a hill
Break into the school at night just to draw hearts on the whiteboard
When the list hit ten, she stopped. Looked at me.
"One more," she whispered.
I looked back.
And suddenly, the air shifted.
"Fall in love," I said, quietly.
She smiled.
But didn't write it down.
Instead, she looked at me for a long time and said, "That one's already happening, huh?"
And I swear to God—my heart did a thing it shouldn't have.
_________
Even though she said that was the last one, Zain kept writing. I mean, we kept writing. The list was no longer just some journal scribble—it was sacred. Dumb, chaotic, beautiful, totally unserious but also the most serious thing I'd ever seen.
Across the top of the page, in glittery pink pen, she titled it:
Cloud Boy + Glitter Gremlin's To-Die List.
Like it was a band name. Or a secret mission. Or the name of our made-up, doomed fairy tale.
"First things first," she said, standing on her bed like she was addressing the United Nations.
"Eat. Ten. Types. Of. Cakesssss!" she screamed, throwing a pillow like it was a confetti cannon.
I could've said no. I should've said no. I had homework, money issues, a test probably—but none of it mattered. Not when she looked at me like that. Not when she smiled like she was rewriting her own fate.
I felt like I owed her something.
Or maybe… I just wanted to feel everything she made me feel.
And so—within the hour—we were outside. No plan. No shoes that made sense. Zain had a hoodie with bunny ears on, sunglasses too big for her face, and glitter on her eyelids like she had war paint on.
"I brought a fork," she said, brandishing it like a weapon from her fuzzy tote bag. "We're sharing. Germs are friends."
"Dear God."
"Say it louder, babe."
We hit every bakery we could find.
The strawberry shortcake shop? Conquered.
The café with matcha cheesecake? Defeated.
The auntie down the street selling birthday slices from a cooler? Victorious.
She made me rank every cake out of 10 and describe the texture "like a food vlogger on a budget."
"'Hmm yes, the crumbs are soft, it tastes like childhood disappointment but with a hint of vanilla,'" she said in a fake accent, shoving lemon drizzle into her mouth.
By cake number six, I was full.
By cake number seven, I was sick.
And by cake number eight, she was laughing so hard she snorted and powdered sugar shot out of her nose.
"I am disgusted," I said, choking on chocolate frosting.
"And yet you're still here. That's love, baby."
We sat on a curb with icing on our cheeks and regret in our stomachs, clutching our sides like war survivors.
"You know what this means," she said, suddenly serious.
"What?"
"We are officially legends. Write it down, Cloud Boy. Legend status unlocked."
So I did.
And she smiled like she'd just stolen the moon.
"Okay," she said, flopping back onto the sidewalk, arms outstretched, sunglasses lopsided. "We rest. Then next mission."
"You're insane."
"And you're in love."
I didn't deny it.
Because maybe she was right.
And maybe this was the beginning of something beautiful and terrifying and completely doomed—but I didn't care.
Not if it meant seeing her laugh like that again.